Such an Icy Chill
by Syri-LLC
Summary: It was wrapped in such a beautiful box...and picked out so lovingly by his father


Look everyone! LLC found a new fandom!

…and that's he sound of half my readers finally giving up on me and leaving. Shit.

ANYway, I bring you my first Godchild drabble.

)o(

December in northern London was tepid at best even in the spring. On clouodless days without so much as a breath of wind, it could even be considered pleasantly warm. Unfortunately, this was neither May nor sunny. December announced it' arrival with sharp, cutting winds and a weatherfall that couldn't rightfully be called snow, but was far too chilling and condensed to call rain.

It was a sort of slush that would likely rip an umbrella to shreds, and yet would soak a man clear through without one. A loose-loose situation. But that was, in a way, just a summary of Jizabel's life.

Walking twelve city blocks in this pathetic excuse for a winter storm did not bode well with the young doctor, who knew too well the likelihood of catching influenza, pneumonia, or just plain death in weather like this.

Shivering, he pulled his coat closer around him, though it made no difference. His town coat, though cut fashionably trim, was sewn more for appearance and show than for warmth. Of course, it hadn't been sewn with the intention of being a winter coat, but a winter coat was something Jizabel did not presently own. A terrible mishap with a broken jar of pickled lovelies had cut the outerwear down in its prime.

So while Jizabel looked as polished as a man of his class should, white tweed hugging close and brass buttons gleaming as though freshly shone, he was sure his face wore an image of misery rather than nobility.

Damn nobility to hell, he thought to himself, ducking his head against the wind. He had more important things to worry about than arranging his features into an air of charm. Like hypothermia.

Finally, he reached the steps of his…home, he supposed he could call it. Once a grand hotel for only the ridiculously wealthy, it had fallen into bad management some 10 years prior. Somehow, through his vast network of connection and even more vast amount of wealth and blackmail, his father had managed to buy the building. No lease, no rent, nothing. And the previous owner would certainly never come calling or wondering how the place was fairing.

Jizabel had made sure of this personally.

Inside, very little had changed. The main hall still looked conspicuously like what it was; a hotel lobby. Cream and goldenrod marble glistened underfoot, reflecting the crystal chandelier overhead almost painfully. A grand front desk still stood on the far end of the lobby, empty now, and with no real purpose. Nobody actually stayed in the lobby for longer than it took them to cross it to the lifts and the stairs. Few ever even paused to gawk at the gold leafing and intriqite crown molding on the vaulted ceiling. And to Jizabel, who had been raised in luxury, such things were only ornaments background, white noise.

He bypassed the lift, taking the stairs instead. A tad dusty, the carpet underfoot was still plush, and squished slightly as he soaked it with rainwater and snow. He wondered if father would scold him for leaving such a mess behind him. The thought was almost enough to make him turn around right then and tidy up his path, but in his current state, he would just have caught himself up in a rat race, making things worse than they already were. He would change, and then see what to do about the carpeting. Surely father would understand once he explained.

Reaching his bedroom, which had once been one of the hotel's grandest suites, he wearily shrugged off his coat, which was every bit as soaked as all the layers underneath it was suppose to protect. Chilled and shivering, Jizabel made a quick show of toeing off his shoes undoing his tie at the same time, not caring really that the sopping wet silk would leave a watermark on the chair he draped it over. The stain left by his dripping shirt would cover it up anyway.

Deftly, he selected a clean shirt from his wardrobe, changing his trousers at the sae spot. Already he felt less shaky. Though his room was no spring breeze, it was substantially warmer than outside, or the lobby, or most definitely the lower floors. Once, they had been servants quarters, kitchens, quick passages and shelters. Possibly the only part of the building to receive any notable reconstruction, it was now where his father spent the majority of his time, and often the only part of this home the other Cards ever saw.

With his curtains drawn against the frosted panes, the room was quite dark, the only light shining from cracks between and stop the draperies, and from light streaming in from the open bathroom window. Perhaps the dimmed atmosphere is why he hadn't noticed the package as soon as he stepped through the door. Lord knows it was large enough and wrapped gaudily enough to attract attention from all but the legally blind.

With only a vague curiosity, Jizabel sat on the edge of his bed, drawing the parcel towards him. Wrapped in creamy white paper, it was topped with a maroon velvet ribbon and a handscrawled card. Upon the paper were the words,

For my Jizabel

Written in Alexis' tidy, broad handwriting, and Jizabel felt a surprised heat spread across his face. With actual interest now, he carefully pulled on the ribbon, listening to the soft shushing of the velvet coming unbound, the ornately tied bow unraveling with just a tug and the ribbon fluttered to his coverlet.

The paper, it turned out, was wrapped abound the box and the lid separately, allowing his to easily open this unexpected gift, with great care and reverence.

After peeling back layers of soft and cautiously laid tissue, he revealed before himself a coat, a new, undoubtedly high dollar winter coat.

Anxiously, Jizabel tucked a loose wave of hair behind his ear, a piece too short to quite fit in his tie. Why…what occasion did Father have to give hi a gift like this? Christmas was not exactly a celebrated holiday in their family, nor where birthdays, not since he was small. And yet there was the card, in penmanship Jizabel knew as well as his own. And it read, to MY Jizabel…

The garment was black, so deeply so that it must have been dyed three times, in the least. It was folded to prominently display the angular lapels, edged in silver thread stitching. The buttons, two rows of them, were silver as well. And real silver. Under the neck, he could see deep blue satin lining, shimmering almost violet. Such a high quality piece of clothing, and very suiting to Jizabel's taste. A tiny burst of warmth surged through his chest as he thought of how Alexis must have chosen this with his own hands. Who else would have? The simplicity of the design was unfussy, just as Jizabel preferred, and yet was tastefully showy.

The buzz still lighting his in his belly, he reached to take the coat from its box, eager to try his gift on for size, though he was sure it would be a perfect fit. But as soon as his fingers brushed against the course weaving, he stopped, a sinking feeling forming where his gleam had just been. The texture of the cloth….soft I nits own right, but not spun cotton or silk…no, the tightly twisted fibers, the ever so slight fuzzy feeling and rough pull against his fingernails.

Such a lovely coat, surely made of highest grade wool.

With a shudder, Jizabel drew his hand back like a shot, as though the coat had seared him and burnt. His father…had bought him a wool coat. A very fine, vey fancy coat.

Wool was so warm, he remembered. A sheep's coat was water repellant, their skin never becoming drenched and wet as his own had this afternoon. Father had surely seen him going the past two months, shivering under his layers, and was worried about him. He didn't want him to fall ill, of course.

But…it was a woolen coat, and Jizabel never wore wool. Didn't father know that? Surely he did. He must have forgotten. Yes.

…

He couldn't bring himself to take it from the box. His fingertips felt warm where he'd brushed it, and he wasn't sure he liked the feeling. He hated the feel of wool like this. It lost the curl, the tight cording fluff God intended a sheep's pelt to have. It felt foreign under his touch in this form. Not like he remembered. Not like how he remembered at all.

With more force than he intended, Jizabel suddenly shoved the box as far away from hi as possible, sending it crashing onto his floor, spilling the contents across the hardwood, buttons clattering. He felt a twinge of guilt, at having thrown such a present on the ground, but in a moment of temper, he wasn't sure he cared.

"Damn him!" he cursed aloud to the empty room. "He KNOWS I wouldn't want such a thing! Father KNOWS how I despise such things!"

Oh yes, Jizabel knew, in theory, that sheering a sheep was beneficial to the dear thing. It cooled them in the summer, and kept them from matting, but all the same, the thought of wearing…he couldn't. Not a scrap of it.

"He KNOWS this, he knows, he KNOWS!" Jizabel shouted, pacing his room restlessly, refusing to look at the cut and sewn piece on the floor across the room.

'But if he knows and does it anyway…' came that voice from the back of his mind, the one he tried every day of his life to stifle, to choke out. He didn't like what this su called "rational" side of himself had to say. It was the side of him based on silly insecurities, ones he'd since learned to ignore.

'He's trying to get to you again,' came that whisper in his mind, and he shook his head violently, as though trying to dislodge an actual object from his brain.

"Enough of this…" he muttered under his breath, and jerked his door open harshly, and pulled it closed behind him loud enough for the slam to echo down the empty corridor, maxing nicely with the sound of his bare feet striding purposefully on the carpet.

A part of him, such a small part, wanted to go find his father. He knew exactly where he would be. Down in his "study", talking his Justice, perhaps, or Owl, or someone else. He rarely called Jizabel down to his room. But he didn't mind.

No, he wouldn't go looking for Alexis. He couldn't harbor the thought of laying his anger into his father. Instead, he directed his feet towards the back entrance, into a small, surrounded courtyard, barely large enough to allow the children of those staying in the luxusiour sooms inside to run off a little engery.

But al Jizabel did was sink down onto a bench just under the awning, one made of granite so cold from the weather he felt it though his trousers the moment he sat.

The chill made him wish he'd brought a jacket, and he almost laughed at the gruesome irony such a thought held.

He wasn't sure why he had run to seek refuge out here. This wasn't a spot he'd deemed as sanctuary. He didn't come here to think, or be pensive, or ponder the meaning of life. He barely ever even crossed the courtyard. And yet it seemed like the only place he wanted to be at the moment.

It actually doesn't feel so cold, if you're out of the rain, he thought some ten minutes later, not having moved so much as a muscle. And truly, it wasn't…of course, he knew part of this was his body readjusting it's temperature settings in an effort to not feel as much pain from the cold, which could be seen as an early sign of hypothermia, but ah, well. He was about ready to go back insider to begin with. In fact, he had just leant forward to return up to his room when he felt a heavy weight settling across his back. Looking curiously over his shoulders, he found himself swaddled in thick, black cloth, held together with elegant silver…stitching…

But the weight wasn't only from the coat he had only minutes ago thrown to the side in disgust, but also from his father's hand, resting warmly on his shoulder.

"What are you doing out here on such a chilling day, Jizabel?" father asked him calmly, dressed in his own long trenchcoat and scarf. "You'll catch a death."

"I…I'm not sure, Father…" Jizabel admitted, peering wearily up at the older man, trying to hunch downwards, as though he could deny gravity and shrink down away from the coat. "I believe…I needed to get a breath of fresh air."

"Don't slouch, son. It's unbecoming." Was his only reply, ignoring the aching tone in Jizabel's voice. And Jizabel straightened his posture immediately.

Some children needed a raised voice to be corrected. All Jizabel needed was a raised eyebrow to feel ashamed

Purposely, Alexis tugged the coat closer around his son, arranging it around him in a way Jizabel longed to call loving. His broad hands pressed the collar against Jizabel's bare neck, and carefully tugged his ponytail out of the way, leaving to barrier between his skin and the harsh woolen weave.

"Honestly, Jizabel. Here I spend the entire morning shopping for you, and bought you such a wonderful gift, and he toss it on the floor."

And again, Jizabel felt like hunching over, possibly into the ground if he could manage it. In fact, the ground was about all he could look at right now. He found it terribly fascinating at present, it seemed, for he couldn't tear his eyes away.

With a tsking sound, he could see his father shaking his head from the corner of his eyes.

"Here I thought I had raised a GREATFEUL child, one who would see the value in a gift from their father. Don't you LIKE the coat I've bought for you, Jizabel?"

When Jizabel failed to answer, Alexis continued on his scolding. Never raising his tone. Never loosing the smooth alto Jizabel had known since childhood. Punishment or praise, it all held the same sound.

"Honestly. One would think a boy your age would be able to look after his own things. Perhaps I'll think twice the next time I decide to bring nice things home for you, Jizabel, if you aren't even going to appreciate them."

And with that he left. Jizabel could hear the glass closing somewhere behind him, and the muffled reverberations of his fathers boots.

Jizabel, who had been planning on heading up to his room for the evening, ended up staying down on that bench until nightfall, watching the glow of London's nightlife rise over the tops of the hotel roof, drowning out the stars.

The temperature dropped as the sun sank, but Jizabel felt no cold. The wind didn't bite right now, and the water couldn't reach him.

And besides, Father had bought him a lovely new coat to keep him warm.

)o(

…For you, Suni

Lottsa Love,

LLC


End file.
